Weakness

Do I arrive at my insignificance already? No. I feel I am the only thinking mind. The only transient character. My mind, and its eternal vacillations, its terrible contradictions, are all there is. However tragic it may all be, is it not important and wonderful to be at the centre of this tragedy? At its petty heart, amidst the boredom. The ‘I’ of ‘I am’ will never leave. My ego will never fade away. For the fading away will be an act of the ego itself. A willed, external understanding. No. The ‘I’ will remain, indeed speaks in this very sentence, is greater than the critique, is everything. ‘I’, the most important word, concept, notion, is not something I lean on or need. It is not an addiction, a prescriptive, or a refuge. I cannot imagine beyond it. There is no ‘beyond’. ‘I’ is my language. My envelope, as Barthes would have us believe. It is my means and my death. Indeed, my death. Yet, here I am, speaking about it, thinking about it. Denying the illusion even as I feel it deep within. The emptiness of not being yourself.